


Paint It Black

by GrowlingPeanut



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Amputation, Sibling Bonding, The Calypso Twins, Vomiting, both of these are minor mentions and not graphic, this was pre-release so some of this is going to be canon-inaccurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 21:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrowlingPeanut/pseuds/GrowlingPeanut
Summary: The Calypso Twins may be ruthless cult leaders willing to do anything to achieve their goals, but everyone has a weakness. Tyreen's weakness is her brother. Especially when it comes to one very specific ritual they've held onto since their childhood.





	Paint It Black

**Author's Note:**

> (My headcanon for the Calypso Twins is that Troy has struggled with chronic illness his whole life, due to being the twin of a Siren. Tyreen's constant transferal of power is pretty much the only thing keeping him alive. In order to keep him from dying when they were very young children, she accidentally killed her parents with her newly-awakened powers, siphoning the life out of them and giving it to Troy.)
> 
> Thanks to the suggestion of a friend, I placed the twins on Promethea as children.

“Still itches sometimes.”

Tyreen looks up from the map.

Across the room, Troy’s prodding at the joint seam of his mechanical arm, toying with the wires. He makes a small sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “I’ve had it for…fuck, ten years? Twelve?”

"Somethin’ like that,” she murmurs.

“You’d think all that…ghost arm…shit woulda stopped by now, y'know?”

She shrugs. They’d been young when he lost it, not really kids, but not really adults, either. Young enough to be terrified by the process. Old enough to know there was no other solution. “Is it hurting?”

“Nah.” He offers her a lopsided smile. “But…if you got a minute, I _could_ use a favor.”

She quirks an eyebrow.

His smile widens into a grin as he wiggles the fingers of his left hand. “Yeah?”

Tyreen rolls her eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “Sure. Lemme go get it…”

“ _Thaa~aanks, Ty_ …” he sing-songs behind her as she disappears around the corner.

It takes a minute of rummaging, but she returns to her brother with a bottle of black nail polish in her hand. “You gotta _promise_ not to fuck ‘em up.”

“When’ve I—?”

“Every time.” She sits down across the table, nailing him with a glare that leaves no room for negotiation. “Gimme your hand. Stay still.” He relinquishes his hand with a requisite amount of insincere grumbling. Tyreen tunes it out, focused on painting.

It’s easy to let her thoughts wander during times like these. She’d never admit it to another living soul, but painting Troy’s nails is the closest she feels to being home. Sure, she loves their life, given what it is. Hearing their names shouted from a frenzied crowd, whispered with the utmost reverence… That kind of power gives a definite thrill.

But there’s still a small part of her—a part she tries hard to keep locked away—that emerges during moments like this. She sees herself as a frightened little girl, four years old, crying tears of agony over the bodies in front of her, nearly sick from the fire inside of her— She blinks herself back to the present. Troy has fallen silent, his expression blank, his eyes distant. She swallows and continues painting.

From that moment onward, he became her priority. The only person she could trust. The only person who knew her. And she protected him with her _life_. It wasn’t easy. They were young, they were wanted, and Troy’s health always hung in the balance. They cherished the mundane whenever they could. There wasn’t much else to keep them sane.

The first time she’d painted his nails, they’d been…eight? No younger than six, she was sure. He’d bounced over, eyes bright behind his dark hair, curious and excited. “ _Can you do mine?_ ” She couldn’t say no, of course, and for the next week, they both sported messy black manicures, proud of them in a way that only children could be.

The next time… She remembered waking up to the sound of coughing. In all the years of dealing with her brother’s sickness, she’d never seen him doubled over vomiting blood. The resulting panic helped her wipe out an entire bandit camp, and she sat in the aftermath holding him, gripping his feverish skin, tattoos bright, tears prickling in her eyes. She’d stayed awake for the rest of the night, willing him to make it through until morning. He did. She remembered the thin, shaky smile. _“Can you do my nails?”_ Of course she could.

And then…he’d lost his arm. The wilds of Promethea were inhospitable. The plants were poison, the creatures were ravenous. They barely managed to make it out alive. Tyreen was exhausted—burnt out; Troy was pale and dizzy from blood loss. She’d patched him up as best she could, but…

_“Ty? …I can’t feel my arm.”_

She wasn’t sure she’d heard him right, at first. But as he peeled away the bloodsoaked bandages, it was clear. They argued about it, both of them more scared than anything else. The infection was too aggressive and they were days, maybe even weeks, away from a safe settlement. She still remembered the way his screams had echoed through the moors. They used their blankets to staunch the bleeding and the rest of their medical supplies to sterilize and wrap his shoulder. Once he’d slept off the shock, it went without saying. Tyreen’s hands were shaky and she could barely see through her tears. It was another messy manicure. It felt incomplete on only one hand.

“…you done?”

The abrupt question jolts her out of her thoughts. “Uh.”

“You got some on the table.”

She follows his eyes. Yeah, sure enough. “Doesn’t matter,” she sighs, screwing the cap back onto the bottle. “This table’s a piece of shit anyway.”

He hums in what she assumes to be agreement and leans back, kicking his feet up. She almost misses the soft smile that crosses his lips as he inspects his nails. She’s glad she doesn’t. “Thanks, Ty.”

“Anything for you, bro,” she assures as she returns to her room.

_And she means it._


End file.
